


A Drop in the Ocean

by PurpleMoon3



Category: Highlander: The Series, Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU, But is more Methos than Loki, Horsemen bros, Methos is Loki., brotherhood isn't a right, it's a privilege
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos is Loki, but what is a thousand years compared to five thousand or more?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Drop in the Ocean

Adam Pierson is a mild mannered Professor of Ancient Languages, teaching introductory greek and latin while running the study groups for the more advanced students. Occasionally, he assists his colleagues in the History Department with translating texts or filling in to lead a class when drama strikes. A good man, they say, a credit to the institution. Adam Pierson is capable in his area of expertise, and pleasant enough, but nothing that would make him stand out from the rest of the scholars he has camouflaged himself among.

Sometimes he has a new face in his classes, soon-to-be-students trying to decide if the classics are for them, but rarely are they as muscular as the blond with the trashy romance hair trying and failing to lurk in the back. More than one of the female students keep turning around to blush at the man-child who refuses to acknowledge their interest. Adam Pierson doesn't know if he should be annoyed at the disruption to his lecture, or flattered by the way the fit man's blue eyes remain riveted to him. The man with the golden mane doesn't doodle on his notebook -pen lies forgotten, balanced precariously on the edge of the table- or reach into his pack for what Professor Pierson can only assume is a very dated, and thus very heavy, laptop.

(Methos whispers _morning star_ and _battleaxe_ and absently drifts over to the edged blades on display in the cases behind him.) 

Ninety minutes later he claps his hands to end the language mangling of his student's tongues. Most leave, filing out with silent complaints on the level of reading assigned, a few linger with questions about pronunciation. Adam sits on the table and answers, jokes, mixes in a little history to help the explanations make sense and be memorable until only the blond is left.

He is staring at Adam, shifting on his feet, opening his mouth like he wants to say something before finally the man blurts: "You always liked words."

"I'm sorry?" Adam is not impressed, though he smiles and flips through his paperwork till he can find one of the extra copies of the syllabus he handed out back at the beginning of the term. He offers the bent and crumpled sheets, "Did you have a question? If you are thinking about taking a language I should warn you we work from the untranslated classics. The class is introductory, but vigorous. Most people prefer a more living language."

"No, bro- No." The man shakes his head, and chuckles. He peers at Adam, as though he is looking for something, but Adam can't _feel_ anything in particular coming off of the man. There is _something_ in the air, a sort of static cling, but nothing he hasn't experienced on a particularly cold day. The man unzips his bag, and Adam's eyebrows lift at the massive hammer the other man pulls out. 

Adam smiles a bit, though, because it is a beautiful work of art, elegant in its simplicity. The hammer is a bit big, no doubt the blond needs all those muscles to wield it, but clearly an original rather than some modern art piece. It is a thing to smash skulls, not start conversations. 

(Methos' fingers itch.)

"If you wanted a consult, you could have called." The glee in Adam's voice is genuine, as is the answering smile that blossoms on the man's face.

"I was unsure as to how to, ah, approach the subject. If you-"

"May I?" Adam asks instead. He wonders how such a thing made it so far in time without being buried in the dirt. The scroll-work is Norse in design, but most warriors had used axes. Those with the gold had swords. For a long while there the Vikings had made the best swords and terrorized the coast of Europa...

"Please! You need only touch it, brother, and then-"

It is a hammer with bite. His fingers brush the handle, and spark of fire travels up his arm to burn into his mind. Memories trickle through like acid, eating at him, yet far more gentle than the taking of a quickening. It is almost as though he is _remembering_ golden halls and rainbow bridges. 

(He has had golden halls before, and servants in much less clothing with brothers he trusted to watch his back and stab it in turn.)

But as always, with the memories comes _power_ and _knowledge_. 

(Methos eyes the hammer, eyes the new memories that are already fading into the library of lives he has lived and taken, and summons up an old skin. A worthy skin.)

Benjamin jerks away, breathing quickly, and thinks of how canons had sounded not unlike thunder. He shakes out his hand, the tingle where the quickening-like energy entered, and if he was a younger man with not a century under his belt how easily those thousand years would have swept him away. Not a dark quickening, but not a light either. He is - annoyed.

He glares at the oaf of a blond, grasps the leather wrapped handle of Mjolnir with hands more suited to a needle and saw, and jerks it from Thor's hands. As expected, it is heavy, but not impossibly so. Thor is still staring at him, but the strange wistful -lustful?- looks have been replaced by surprise that melts into _joy_.

(Methos checks the skies overhead, waits for the heaviness to return, but for all her marvelous powers sentience and logical thinking is not one of them.)

Benjamin has to use the hammer as a wall to keep Thor from wrapping those tree-trunk arms around him. "Brother!" The blond beams. "This is wonderful news! Come home with me and Father will see-"

"I apologize!" The leather wrapped handle vibrates in his hand, and the skies rumble. "I am sorry, but we have not met before. You seem to be mistaking me for something else."

"Loki, what jest is this?"

(Methos shivers, for he has practiced many forms of death but using something so like a quickening to re-write someone's very self... that is a kind of death even he won't touch.)

"It's not a joke. I am not your brother, though I hope you find him." He pushes the hammer at Thor's chest, picks up his bag with his books, and heads for the door. As he takes the right down the hall he can just see Thor staring at Mjolnir like a kicked puppy before the door swings shut.

(Methos listens as the voice of their newest skin laughs and laughs and laughs. He doesn't care all that much as the laughter is bubbling up from his own throat.)

Less than a week later Adam Pierson's car runs off of the road and slams into low wall of stones. He calls for help from his cellphone -his seat belt won't release- but while on the line the car explodes.

The body is burned beyond recognition, and Adam Pierson never had dental work done for records to be compared.

It rains in Paris for nearly a month, but Methos is enjoying the dry cold of Silas' mountain and the company of his favorite brother.

(Loki enjoys the mead, brewed in the old style with less sweetness and more kick than anything Asgard would provide.)


End file.
